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Nicole Ashley Jul 2015
There's comfort in silence
but it also destroys
when used incorrectly
Abraham Esang Oct 2017
Death showed me how to dress.

it says "not that one, these shoes rather, somewhat less dynamic and somewhat more meek, more

modesty, less certainty."

Death showed me not to wear hoodies, to keep my head revealed, to wear light hues

rather than dull in light of the fact that I am sufficiently dim as of now

to purchase a belt for some jeans I possess, even better, to not wear pants,

death showed me how to do my hair, it says "less curl, more typical, straighter, longer,

more slender," it consumes my scalp and gives me a brush and says "isn't it decent to run your

fingers through it now,"

Death showed me who to like, what music to tune in to, how to keep individuals agreeable,

instructions to walk; "don't limp, straight shoulders, however remain littler than them,"

it showed me my vocabulary, the majority of the enormous words that gain me honors, for example, 'verbalize,'

'dislike whatever remains of them,' 'a great one,'

Death is continually instructing me to be less, less American, more African , an appreciated expansion, a

token, to reveal myself and strip myself of any weapons, any dangers

Death is a x-beam machine, and says in the event that I do anything incorrectly, it will come

as though I'm not kicking the bucket to myself as of now

Death says "what an opportunity to be alive."

since in this nation, Black is imperceptible
Dear God
Dear God
There are things i have been asking myself
I don't mean to disturb,
but why as she is asking for healing  she is not healed?
why is she still sick?
as she has prayed hours for rescue,
days of fasting
and she still awaits answering
you see,
she  has seemed to have lost faith and that's why I'm asking
you see,
She's believed the word
that in John chapter five verse five
that invalid man watched everyone
receive miracles for thirty-eight years
while he has invalid
and perhaps thats how she feels ,
invalid

Dear God,
Her self-esteem is on the floor
she's incapable of taking more
as she said she couldn't ; her mind was in war
she cried ; and i tried to tell her that her life had purpose
but she didn't listen,
and thats what saddens me but depression seems like her addiction
Her self-esteem is on the floor,
and im trying to help her up and all she does is ignore
I don't think she knows who I'm


Dear God,
She lost herself,
as i hugged her , she wanted no one close to her,
I told her;
I understand you are going through hard times,
that some friends have failed you all this time,
that you were rejected so many times,
but God made me do that,
the people incorrectly came to do that,
you never deserved that,
you were isolated from everyone
because God did that
If i were to let you go out at night in this depression,
the hurt of your lesion would grow more then at this second
that if i would have let certain people stay a little longer in your life,
they would have caused a bigger problem,
and I'm not allowed to do that,
that if you would still have those friends,
you would be in a maze with no way out
you were isolated for a reason
and the people who are most close to you
need time , time to be healed but that man
who was invalid ,waited thirty eight years.
so wait for your answering on why
this is happening
For me, everyone can be beautiful
It really all depends on them
And if you judge yourself
By means of eyes which do not
Belong to you, you're doing life incorrectly
Beautiful people are the honest ones
They are unapologetic
They love themselves and we know it
I'm talking about true love here
Not fake eye lashes and fancy cars
I'm talking about those who use
Their imperfections to build
Those who say **** yeah, that's me
When others just look away
People who accept what they can't change
The people who know that once in a while
People NEED to be offended by
What they say or think or act on
You're bat **** crazy if you try to
Get it all correct or all copacetic
You'll fall very short "pleasing" others
Beautiful people just are
Beautiful people are rare
mira Nov 2018
winter
the wreath’s rustle interrupts my sleep. in my dreamy shiver there is lucidity. between my toes there is carpet; I can feel its green, sense its virginal cool as I shuffle across the hall. I have the urge to scream, to tear the milk-matted blanket muffling my fervid anticipation. I hear you, then: the creak of the door, the friction of skin and silk, the sapped wail of youth’s wasted power. starlight pierces the linen curtains and casts my shadow ten feet tall, two feet tall, not at all. I crawl into bed and feel your breathing but it is not you. you are the unbroken hum of the furnace.

spring
the sugared smell of candy fruit depresses my throat and ***** threatens. my eyes search the window for a stranger but only rain knocks; my clothes are still wet, dripping one, two, three on each step. they dry more quickly than the boards creak; more quickly than I can find the storm drain, my translucent skin sloughing off at your touch. you are the static of broken vhs, the rattle of the closet mirror door as it slams, the easing cries through a premature mouth. I scream again, only to feel you in my ears as cotton, in my limbs as rigor. you whisper my name and I turn like a dog.

summer
dandelion seeds litter the dew-fresh yard. sing louder, you say, and I run faster. the wet heat is psychoactive. I trip and fall and you are the grass; you are the mud, the leaves, the water, the worms. you are the earth who protects my knees, careful to keep pristine my blue-jean jumper, careful to capture every moment of fleeting touch. oak leaves sway above. as intently as I gaze at it, the sun gazes at me and my doe eyes well. maybe there is something in them. maybe there is something in them with your crystal reflection, an eskimo kiss to speak what I cannot.

fall
afternoon sun rules my body and becomes blistering, unbearable; I stir, pressing against the heat, pressing your fingers into my skin, seeking to relieve the thrill. steam curls from my eyelashes as they squint to see you through the illuminated dust. it accumulates. you are the sudden cognizance of the windburn on my cheeks, lingering october air sharp behind my eyes, forcing tears I cannot help but to explain incorrectly. you are their singed, sweet-hot puddles in my hair. you are the residue they leave long after your sublime touch made them invisible.
four different people
Andrew Apr 2018
To kiss someone's lips
Or grab them by the hips
One must enlist
In the power dynamic
Inside every relationship
There are surprises
Of different disguises
I must ignore the lies of
Reachers and settlers
Stalkers and meddlers
Those who are aloof
And those who are goofs
The process never foolproof
When animals hide their hooves

I took that dubious bet
I thought it'd be fun
A game of Russian roulette
With a fully loaded gun
There were unfair rules set
That's how you won
A one hundred percent threat
I'd be hurt a ton

It started effecting my health
When I couldn't be myself
Because my self emulation
Amounted to self immolation
So I sought your consultation
For the vacation
Of placation
But you took advantage
At least from my vantage
I could see your rampage
Straight from the Stone Age
Like a time traveling mage
That summoned a cage

There was a pattern
We kept going around
Like the rings of Saturn
Until I hit the ground
You made me foolishly wait to test me
And then hated when things got messy
Now you claim that you're a blessing
For what you do after *******
You must be jesting
Confidence cresting
Never confessing
Or addressing
The emotional underbelly
You just like to undersell me
Saying that I'm underwhelming
I'm talking to a tundra telling me
That it makes me a better me

Apologizing not part of your plan
You tell me you don't understand
You must think I'm stupid
To treat me so putrid
My patience you've used it
So the dead weight loosened
Once I let go of your noose hand

You come back begging
You incorrectly pegged me
As forgiving not petty
I guess you never met me
Or at least said goodbye to the best me
After never acting on the behest of me
And making me think less of me
You've become a pest to me
Not part of my destiny
Just part of the generic sea
Of those I let be
Floo Jan 2
Your words are a bad cliché
Written by an overdramatic teen- in his thirties
With imaginary issues,
Mass grown, like spores, in the mushroom farm of your mind
Fed a sucrose solution of sardonicism and sadness

A parasite you nurture, your mind is a mess
But I know you mean every word you type
Swallow all the poison you grow
Feed yourself on the self hatred you generate through delusion
I hate your delusions

I ordered incorrectly
My bowl is filled to the brim,but I don't want to share, and I don't want to report an error
Let me keep your incorrigible and unpleasant nature to myself
My Mr Mushroom Man
Nat Lipstadt May 10
~for Steve Yocum~

if
well you know me, ken the man that has
surf-surrendered before you in one too many visions,
if well you know me, now with solstice summer just to come,
a man ever asking, where’s shelter, returns to the whence and why,
for each year, the summer man (1) was and is reborn to die,
reborn at the whence and where each wave dies storytelling of him

you see him, but do not see-think, the man’s endless wave watching, final resting on a shoreline, think incorrectly, each, just a repetition,
one story come and gone then shattered, busted-blasted,
into sea green glass pieces, then when retold, worn yet further,
into granulated pictures, each a sugary sand speck, a letter-memory, locked, loaded, then hid embedded on an ocean graveyard

no two waves alike, men cannot distinguish, same as humans cells,
the body itself, all its microscopic cells, cosigned and cousin’d,
yet each minutely singularly unique and differentiated,
so the waves as well, of single droplets ribbed, but ocean appearing
as a forestal paradisal garden with trees of life and apples of death,
each customized, but all of one body of blue soil clayed with water

there summer man pilgrimages, on a May to Fall Jerusalem journey,
sits on the sand amidst ocean angels come to grasp dead carcasses,
he observes his summer New Year rituals, the waves grasp his soul,
wrap him in prayer shawl, skin striped by tefillin leather straps,(2)
each wave, a sentencing, a long novel of the loving life, writ by an
infinity of recombo-wakes, some woke/some sunk - all never-ended

I crawl into foamed dreams, the white salt blanches living skin,
swim out to wherever legs and arms have no power of propulsion,
carried and drift but never aimless, never shameless, always endless,
we, all, children of  Israelites, wade on water a 1000 fathoms deep,
soaking in tales of landlocked organisms, all from the water created,
all are sprung, all come, returned, waves speak, histories for retelling

so from now till the fell of fall, the summer man pays obeisance,
his sitting place, his sand markings so well entrenched, waves
leave it untouched, his indentation upon the grains, they go around,
friends, sun wind tide seagull and ospreys, keep their distance, not disturbing his reading, telling, praying, adding his owned/disowned
particle-of-the-day of creation/becoming/diminution,

his poem tales written, then diminished, the man


lost in the waves, found in the waves


~~~~~~~
5/07/2019
writ upon an isle of concrete,
resting upon a bedrock of volcanic schist at 4:24am
before the pilgrimage to a true sandy isle

~~~~~~~~
inspired by a rendition of “Lost in the Waves”

https://youtu.be/MayNMko-e4s


Lost in the Waves, written by Kooman & Dimond

At the edge of the Atlantic,
Can't bring myself to swim.
I choked back the tears for twenty two years,
Drowning in shadows of him.
The waves etch out a pattern
Long after they're gone.
The lines that they trace, they quickly erase,
But something's still lingering on.
Lost in the waves.
I am lost in the waves.
No one but me and the silent black sea;
I am lost in the waves.
A vision in the moonlight:
A family on the beach.
A boy on his own, by the undertow thrown
Far beyond his father's reach.
He's caught in a riptide.
A man has to choose.
There's a race to be won for the life of his son,
But someone has to lose.
Lost in the waves.
He was lost in the waves.
Salt water burns, the tide always turns,
When you're lost in the waves.
Now I'm the one sinking.
There's no solid ground.
And I can't help thinking
I'm the one who has drowned.
Now knee-deep in the water,
I feel my father's touch.
And though fully grown, I've still never known
How to love someone that much.
Lost in the waves.
I am lost in the waves.
No one but me and the silent black sea;
I am lost in the waves.
I am lost in the waves.
I am lost in the waves.

heard last night in a Master Class for actors/singers taught by
Lea Salonga, in Studio 5, City Center,  NYC
(1) https://hellopoetry.com/poem/447181h/i-am-a-summer-man/
(2) https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tallit   lookup tefillin
Xallan Jan 28
let my entire purpose be this essay
let my words have wings that lift my mood
let my thoughts tie themselves into knots
so complicated that they restrict them too

let my mind eat itself like a snake
unhinging its jaw to gulp down an egg
let me find the nest of true meaning
let this essay buoy me up with purpose
let it drive me to share rather than destroy
let my words become art and truth
rather than wither away into unmeaning

**** am I inspired to write
but certainly not anything with meaning
I want to dump my whole person
into these empty words and watch
from above as the carcass floats downstream
having drowned in a bucket, in a puddle
of my own impetuous laziness then

I want them to see the callouses
and know that I tried my best- but
I want them to scan my wordlogged brain
and know that the whole ordeal was
pointless anyhow, at least with that
great blockage up there I mustve known
I was toast

I want to bang my head against a wall
the bruises will run to the floor and stain
empowering me to leave a mark
I want to think think think get them gears
turning by figuring out how to crack
my coconut, like a dumb monkey
let my mind meet my thick dumb skull

we dont think too much, just incorrectly
I want to **** it, to ponder less and live more
we think less and therefore live at all
It seems I never stop thinking, just like
it seems I never stop breathing
both essential for life, and death
and ever so slowly I burn and melt away

yeah this is some therapeutic torture
ogdiddynash Jul 13
a thousand poems stronger
by the Son of Ogden
(1 ~ 30)

preface.  
majestic adjectives of contrary harmonies,
adverbs in adversity that modify our satisfactions,
gut punch our eyes, scramble the taste buds,
now inoperable, incapacitated to distinguish
what is disturbed - what is sweet - what is impossible.
my days ending is nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of what I’ve got left,
stale panko crumbs,
here come they in 1000 radium-tipped projectiles of
serious humorous self-destruction,
gifted to you few itinerant followers
brave enough to follow me into the deeps of
radioactive incomprehension,
in no particular disorders
a thousand times
<>

one.
he named me after him
he named me after him,
his best ditty ever,
my inheritance,
a laughing brook of
guppy royalties,
that keep our Labrador
reasonably well fed poetically

and of course his name

his name,
which was not so much inherited,
as deposited, X-mark-the-son

they ask,
no, they declarative announce
as fact,
answered even as asking,
tho their voices rising
in a pretend-questioning format,
are you as good as he was?

Oh no, of course not,
I'm merely the son,
He was the father,
between us now
the celestial
Holy Ghost of Rhyme

two.
platitudes and attitudes
she said
“to find good love,
be receptive never deceptive,
always ever, never never.”

I listened, warming, warning her,
“rhyming is the sophistry of those who cannot decide.”

I drove away, in just my pajama top,
(my bottoms at the crime scene)
lest she ****** macabre me like in an Agatha.

I foresaw a drama developing of her
hanging me by my pj bottoms,
knotted two by too
tightly trite leggings
drawn to prevent the rhyming of my breathing,
each pant to peeve me into panting,
one named
moon and the other,
June

so I decided what the heck,
I’ll go first
for literature’s sake

three.
a thousand poems stronger,
an exercise in 15 minute segments,
18 hours daily, easy peasy,
I’ll have my thousand in a mere
13.8888888888888 days, then
what the heck am I do with those now
superfluous 6 hour wastrels?

drink

four.
chernobyl on peoples mind.
mine too, pretty clear, humanity intent
on destroying itself.

good to know!
I can put off my
my perpetual idea of getting even by suicide,
waiting now until my very last moment,
cause I won’t be cheated
out of course
god and his central committee
of what they have being planning for me,
all my life

five.
which movie do you want to see Saturday night,

Yesterday or Spiderman?

“Spiderman I’ve seen Yesterday”
what!
you saw Spiderman yesterday
without me?
we’re done!
don’t ever text me again!

(parentheses and commas, can keep you together,
get it?
that’s why they call it PUNK’d-you-nat-shun)

six.
the jew in you,
something
you long suspected,
or long lamented, the absence of this moniker
applicable directly to your sorry ***,
after all who doesn’t want to be among the
ch-ch-chosen peeps?

this blessing in disguise, it’s very special
to be hated by almost,
everyone.

Hatred,
the great equalizer,
highlighting your choicest features
race, gender, etc. etc.,
but like the song said,
though somebody may hate unlucky you,
everybody, no exceptions,
hates the jews.

everyone knows the jews own the banks.
everybody hates the banks
who leave you on hold,
leaving you, wondering why, they won’t give you back
at the ATM, the good money you lent them,
so you must be minimum 10%
shrewish (shhhh-jewish) or
whaat! why?

yup, your deposit is a liability on their books,
so you too are a moneylender, congrats!
welcome to the club,
the club of being a liability

we jews travel the world,
chased out from almost everywhere,
so we invented the around-world-cruise,
and the world gave us steerage class
to remember our place.

ask americans why they prefer kosher hebrew national frankfurters
for July fourth cookouts and they will reply they are extra clean,
possibly even a little blessed by the rabbin-ate,
and everybody knows
the jews got all the luck,
so don’t forget the mustard and the
pickled relish,
which rhymes with you know what, 
kosher hot dogs,
love that jewish treat, a digestive hellish,
and proof positive that hot dogs
make america great again

seven.
the hours
she has spent trying to ascertain which,
is she wearing,

is it black or navy,

leave her amazingly distraught;
she stands in bare bulb jaundiced glory undecided,
locked in her not-a-walk-in closet,
till I’m called to catch and release her,
asking me what do I think.

brought her my old school tie,
Joseph-striped of many colors,
only for comparison purposes.

as far as I know,
she’s still hanging there,
right where I left her,
throughly undecided

eight.
since seven ate eight,
one cannot expect much
too much return on my in-vestments,
given the hole in my accounting

five, six, nine
is most unsatisfying,
like brunch.

brunch? neither breakfast or supper,
assuredly not lunch,
pointedly ridiculous
if you don’t know what time it is
by the meal’s nomenclature

nothing sensible rhymes with
supper
except for crupper and scupper,
both of which like brunch,
leave me confused and
wholey unsatisfied
as I’m clueless
as to what each one means,
just like
brunch

by the way,
do have the time?

nine.
Dylan sings to his blue eyed son.
I have two sons, now grown men,
cannot recall the color
of their eyes anymore.

one put seventeen stitches in my skull,
has no interest in my seeing his handiwork,
ok by me, cause he might make some addition &
improvements to my face.

the other, deems himself a failure,
or perhaps just me, guilty,
so he hates me for it,
ergo, ip so facto, he too,
cannot look me straight in my eye.

I have selected my own memory of their
insightful eyeful rightful colorations,
from their visionary visitations in my
unhappy dreams.

one yellow, the other red,
which just now realization dawns,
just happens to be the colors of mine own,
as the song says,
they grew up to be just like me

ten.
loved many women in my daytime life,
still, not enough, to satisfy my needs.
that is why god created the Cohen’s holy dark,
so we can be alone when we
fill out the list I deny keeping,
and only they can see me,
& vice versa, so apropos,
nobody else.

Romance is great,
when it is wordless and silent,
no interrupt-us when writing many
imaginary imagery love poem
with ambidextrous hands!

eleven.
I know you think round about poem number 100,
I’ll curse myself for this sisyphusian self-assigned task.
so far not, as the ideas for poem notions come so fast
I must write them down less they escape my entrapment.
just recall cannot
what this one was to be about...mmm...
entrapment,
maybe?

twelve.
dug a well in the front yard, to be natural and free
fearful of governmental pipes and taxation that grows
under their watchful eye
of all things they controls, that grows and grows,
more, poisonous and Flinty.

next to the well pump,
built a still to harvest
my own liquor, raw and strong,
just like me,
intending to be
a tax-free man, drunk as a skunk,
and dependent on no one.

but I am a puzzled person.

Their adjacencies,
the still and the well,
made a deal in hell,
means they engaged in shameful *******,
and all I can brew is
dis’d-stilled water.

thirteen.
there are so many types of pockets,
especially for jeans.
my favorite is the “ticket pocket,” that little pocket stitched
inside a bigger front pocket,
maybe also called a “watch” pocket,
supposedly
a cowboy designation for safeguarding
their chained pocket watch receptacle.

who ya kidding.

anyway, a second naming more to my liking:

seems cowboys put their train ticket where they could easily
retrieve them as the conductor conducted himself properly,
asking each passenger after every stop to show his ticket.

so it came to be,
Levi gave us pockets of variety,
durable, baggy ones to carry our jewels comfortably,
one for tightly ticket embracing,
and further inspired that
sewn on the hat of every railroad conductor,
a russian motto,
Trust but Verify.

I myself use the ticket pocket for
my keys,
which in any other jeans pocket, movement
causes cruel and unusual pain, but not if that huge bunch of jangling
instruments of torture are tightly tucked in their own prison interior,
incapable of doing hot yoga or
any other stupid exercise requiring
jingling jangling movement

Just don’t you dare ask me what the purpose of each key be,
it is just a tortured secret for men in the private parts of their soul,
to confess that keys carried for three houses ago,
are a metallic proofs that men are indeed as dumb
as women think they are;

show me a rusted lock somewhere,
I got an hour to try ‘em all!

fourteen.
******.
the weather idiot predicted rain and thunderstorms.
planned extensively a day of inside activities, that are time sensitive.
Yes, of course, the sun is shining causing the ladies to question,
my witticisms, my type “A” personnalité, and worse, mocking my
key bulge (see above) as signal sign of my
increasing decreasing procreative masculinity,
due to lead and metallic poisoning.

**** those blonde gorgeous weather persons,
never forget, look out the window!
or
trust but verify

fifteen.
my father was a pretty perfect guy,
beloved by most and especially children.
He was a ‘gallant’ of european extraction,
who tipped his homburg and greeted everyone by name,
forgetting none and who was related to whom,
or their distant cousins in Kansas City,
with whom he stayed when he was a
traveling salesman,
in 1933.

My only complaint, was and remains,
he never went with me
to Yankee Stadium,
saw the emerald green diamond miracle
in the Bronx,
as he,
small businessman, worked six days a week,
and had no time for juvenile nonsense.

Otherwise, he was perfect.

sixteen.
when the kids were young,
invested in fancy luggage
cause we needed vacations
to get away from them.

These luggages,
had them roll to the number combination numbers locks
which was where technology
was back in the nineteen eighties,
when I was a young husband and father,
using the year of their birth
as a four digit code

of course, I programmed them both incorrectly,
and they, who can’t remember anything good
I’ve ever done for them,
remind every time they come to see me,
which is pretty much never.

seventeen.
asked what I desire for breakfast,
replied scones and crumpets from the
good ole U. of K. with a cups of celebratory
invisible tea (tee-hee)

she did not even bother to snort in an elegant
derisory manner,
just walked away,
just turned on her high heeled sneakers,
(a very worthy sight),
saying grilled cheese sandwiches,
it is then,
alright

No need to ask me which cheese,
she experientially knowledgeable in my acculturation,
one will be ameddican, the other swiss, unless
smoked mozzarella is in the larder,
(who has a larder anymore?),
as I am in matters of cheese,
a transgender, formerly bisexual,
but still a questionable
questioning globalist

ateteen.
some men do yoga.
all men do ***.
women prefer,

ah,
never mind,
you know how this ends.

humbug.

nineteen.
man cave(s) versus she-sheds.

A man I know, finished his basement,
a skilled builder, he built it himself and
installed the masculine perquisites items,
recliner and pool table, etc.

When asked how he was enjoying his privy isle
he replied, it’s ok,
but haven’t been down there much lately,
seeing as the pool table is used primarily
for folding laundry, and the recliner
reserved for her unmentionables.

he has
shed his man-cave secondarily
to she,
Cardi-b-Cleopatra,
that rules, the empire,
now it’s
her she-shed,
he cried openly to me,
another man cave-less bro

twentea.
coffee and me and more coffee,
a twining combination made genetically.

no tea for two,
even if it were a lovely twin-ing with milk,
no, my cup of joe, a holy relic,
for holy cherishing.

then they told me about tea thimbles,
their purpose nigh, I know not,
but mightily infuriated,
that they, the tea people
had armament and we bean counters had none.

took a stirring spoon to the tool shed,
cut the spoon in half, then shaved to a pointy edge.
no longer can I stir my hot beverage to
comfort the downtrodden,
poets with zero inspiration,

but who cares,
I am now armed to the
teeth,
or more precisely,
in my gum’s teeth
for that is where  
my pointy thing
decided to make its point,
and poetically,
injure me
egotistically.

twentee one.
if my true name you uncovered,
and called me out by same,
without spasm-ing,
first middle and the lost at-last,
you, like me would wonder
what the heck my parentals
were imbibing
at such a joyous occasion,
at my cursed
naming ceremony

but thanks to them,
I’ll be buried with a full head
of fair thicker hair;
that’s why they say,
“**** good thing
you don’t get
to pick your parents
names!”


twentee two.
every painting in the house is
modestly crooked due to the twinning effects of
vibrations and moonfull spoonfuls of gravity,
causing the tensile strength of the wires to
pensile slowly surrender to point downwards.
It occurs, perhaps
it’s me that’s crooked, but that’s just plainly
croissant crazy, like writing a thousand poems
in one 14 days long sitting. nah, not me...

twentee three.
I am the dishwasher man.
a responsible handyman needs good tools,
given pots and pans to scrub with burnt black stains,
not of mine making, even more infuriating,
of twenty ++ years of Duration
(definitely deserving of a capital D)

went to the supermarket seeking vision,
guidance and a variety of choices,
for a product specific,
not Made in China,
lest we purposely allow ourselves to be poisoned,
so purchased a Scotch-Brite *** scrubbing brush
of hecho mexicano origin

Now I stare at the Amazon screen,
undecided how many replacement brush heads I should acquire,
the cheapest unit price is for a box of 1000,
which no smart store of repute would ever carry,
(cause you would never come back)
@nd which if I actually use up, 1000, it means
I’ll be scrubbing pots from on high.

but my awe for genius wisdom is further esteemed,
as they say of it,
it makes you buy mostly what you don’t need,
or
“each according to his own stupidity.”

twentyfur.
we re-plant hydrangeas annually
which our ravenous tick carrying, **** deer,
munch contentedly,
under our window,
when we are sleeping.

In the last ten years,
today, I saw my first solitary flowering accidental.
as I’m in poem mode, it occurs to me that
the first line is incorrect;
for the sake of brevity,
it should read we retentives,

we re-plant hydrangeas
anally


twentyfiver.
ah pasta!
the quality of good writing is always strained,
salted and drained, the experience of all
your five senses, together in concert, straining,
each rivulet of spaghetti strands stands
indivisible, under god, calorically sinning individually,
defying forking unification,
each recalling the where, the what, or the when,
but not

ah, the how.
matters this know-now,
how,
the how came calling,
the resurrection of inspiration,
the gene sequence of past steppes,
always the first to go

the how of life
grows spoiled, fuzzy first,
because a human assembled
the how,
but allowed time to deconstruct itself-himself,
so
the tomato sauce bolognese inspirational stains
exist to remind us
how
to remain perfect forever

poetica est enim propter cibum

poetry is what you eat

twentysick.
The P Propensity
this benighted dishwasher,
is familiar with the P Propensity Theorem,
as he invented it

the need to solve for the need to P,
while undertaking the great dishwashing,
is mathematically soluble:

N, the number of ***** dishes
                    D%, the variable percentage of how *****,
           (necessitating pre-scrubbing, or not,)
                                M, the meal, breakfast lunch or supper,
(a modifier of N)
Ba2, bladder age squared)

formula:
if N(D%) {M_}
                              [where M1 is breakfast, M2 is lunch etc.]
/Ba2

is >1,

then it is too late,
better get
an adult diaper

twenteesventh.
you write of dismembered leaves,
pains too sweet,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
quiet rain, droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
tastes that burn eyelids colored
blood stained mustard yellow,
the gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,

really?

dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and other
and other Olsonian beauties,
non-lexical non-commonsensical ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries
and then you wonder why

PEOPLE ******* HATE POETRY?

twenteaateth.
people love my poems
especially the ones they never readeth.
fulfilling, like the goop of the witch of Gweneth,
costly to the point of losing their inside sanity,
but they sell like hot cakes,
so complaining is just me poetic feigning,
my deep appreciation for you shelling out 9.99
for poems no publisher would ever

twentytentygoldniners.
“alliteration”
a tool for useful fools
who tongue words to poems.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

words to a dizzy dancing,
hopelessly hoping, harlequin hovering lover,
tonguing lyrics
like the way I tongue women;
which upon further reflection
alliteration is not a bad idea

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
a single alliterative
love poem
with multiple
endings & possibilities

the ***** thirty.
here I pause,
cause I read Mao.


for Jennifer Beetz  -
“Such a list-  I'm exhausted just reading it.
You must have lots of pockets.”


hell yes, I do!

no man-bag for me baby.
the older I get, the more
stuff becomes the usual,
human carrying
sad necessities.

got me one of them vests,
that the photographers employ
when going on safari.

so many bulging pockets,
the TSA people pat me
up and down, more than once,
and once more when I’m boarding
just to be sure no one pocket goes
untouched and check if I’m excited

don’t expect a full list of what
I’m carrying, suffice to say
it could be embarrassing
to my no doggedy dignity (dig-no-ity).

you may someday come to notice
that life’s baggage is cumulative,
you think, get free of the crap,
but the crap says, nah, sticking to ya.

and one mo’ thing...

all them **** poems
need pocket courage and a
Macbethian sticking place
<>
the end for now
Irate Watcher Jan 20
No, I do not have
a circle of
wavy-haired
blue-eyed
dime-a-dozen
friends
who will
squeal
as I pop a bottle
of champagne,
and wear a sash that
says: "Same ***** forever."

I have never been comfortable
in groups or embracing memes
that are sadly, true.

Since I was a young girl,
I knew
I was different.
I never attracted
a consistent
group of girlfriends
as much as I wanted to
be accepted,
they eyed me with suspicion,
as I awkwardly attempted
to discuss lipstick shades,
as if it were the end of the world
should they chose incorrectly.
I never actually learned
how to apply lipstick correctly.
I still **** it up.

I wore athletic pants
everyday,
but I was not ***.
Their denim and tight
shirts just felt restraining.
When they talked
about ***** or ***
or periods, I just shrugged.
I didn't have any of those things.
I didn't beg my mom for an overpriced
prom dress,
because that's fiscally irresponsible
when you only where it once.
I didn't playfully avoid the boys flicking
cheez-its down my cleavage,
because I didn't have cleavage for boys to
flick cheez-its down!
I wasn't joining a sorority
because I didn't subscribe to
that version of sisterhood —
spending money I didn't have and
doing ******* I didn't have time for.

I was taught
as women
that our
mutual quest is to
waste each other's time
and money.
To make posters
and cookies for people.
To look and feel anything
but ourselves.
To strive toward
mediocre accomplishments
related to our wardrobe
and appearance.

There was no place for my
pragmatic contrarianism
as a women. I was supposed to be
overly concerned with the next concert
I was going to and dying my hair
a new shade of pink.
But whatever if I fail Spanish because
our teacher was a ***** anyway.

I hated being a women.
I didn't feel like a man,
but ****** if I would
be cajoled into a cult
where in order to gain respect,
I had to make myself small, less.
Even as I wrote this poem, I hesitated to
describe myself earlier,
as pragmatic,
because as a women,
I'm not supposed to define myself.

I was the most cliche misanthrope.
My outlook on humanity
was pretentious,
an amateur armchair
philosophy major:
They were the herd,
and I was a lion
with no interest
in chasing them
in their brightly
colored t-shirts.

It was late in college
that I started to realize I was wrong.
That there were plenty of
women who weren't the girls
from high school.
There were other outsiders like me.

But it wasn't until my mid-20's that
I didn't hate myself for being a women.
Hating my curve-less
body, how unfortunate
I had to bleed each month
when I didn't even feel like
I belonged.

It wasn't until I respected myself,
that I began to respect other women.
It wasn't until I stopped hating my body,
that I stopped prioritizing my intelligence
over others, especially when the men in my life
told me I was one of the smart ones.
It wasn't until I respected myself as a women,
that I could cultivate
deep and meaningful friendships
with other women.

I still hesitate to say
I have found sisterhood.
I still feel like an imposter sometimes.
But don't worry.
I will have bridesmaids.
See, I have friends.
They just aren't the kind
that make me wear a sash
gleefully declaring
my ***** prison.
They know me better.
As often as I have tried
To conceal my darkness inside
I cannot shake the feeling
That that doesn't lead to healing
See, I will be the first to stand here and say
That I am one of many flawed creatures
Called humans
But I will not subscribe to the notion
That each life is set in motion
By the desire to do evil
When the purest of children play
It seems to be their attempts to learn
That sometimes lead them astray
In our life, we take abuse
And like the bruises left behind
We are left with spots of darkness in our mind
These points of sensitivity that we guard
For fear of being hurt again
But like a bone that has healed incorrectly
We must endure pain to break and reset
Our incorrect perspectives on life
No longer will we bang our head against a wall
And then blame it for the blood running down our face
These self-destructive behaviors
Do not do us any favors
But until we begin to heal
All we will ever feel
Is pain
simon Mar 6
i was born incorrectly
not that i had any difficulty breathing
or any heart disease or ****** malfunctions

it's just that i was born into
the very incorrect body

i'm not mad at anyone
not my mom or my dad or my siblings
or the doctors that label me as a girl

it's just that i was born into
the very incorrect body

i understand that it's not normal
it's significantly out of the norm, in fact
and the amount of unusual looks is very difficult to deal with

it's just that i was born into
the very incorrect body

i know that i am a boy
and nothing will ever make me feel any different
not even my mother's constant probing and prodding

because i was born with
the very correct soul

— The End —